Shrimp & Wine

The lake was shrimp shaped—not like a cooked prawn on a shrimp ring. Like a like live one turned on its side, the various rivers on the Northern end serving as its legs and long antennae. Mason and I had been completing benthic biomonitoring surveys at Shrimp Lake, Ontario all week. Today I was going at it alone, having texted Mason my exact coordinates before touching the water.

Amphipoda, more commonly known as scuds, are pale thin creatures with large black eyespots. They are a type of freshwater shrimp. I watched one scuttle around in a petri dish under my magnifying glass. My eyes were not as good as they had once been and these creatures could be tiny. After ten minutes of performing a kick and sweep in hip waiters, I also didn’t care to drag the multiple buckets of water back to my car where my microscope waited.

Instead, I delicately grasped the scud with a pair of tweezers and dropped the creature into a jar of isopropyl alcohol. I never watched them suffocate and always whispered an apology even though my professor back in college had consistently told me nobody cared. She was wrong though. I cared, and I knew she cared too. I kept my focus on finding my next victim. I needed one hundred for a sample but I purposely ignored the large crayfish scurrying around the bin.

Decapoda, commonly known as crayfish had always been my favourite of all the bottom-dwelling freshwater invertebrates. Their gorgeous shells were vibrant shades of blue, red, and green. Dropping them into the isopropyl would bleach the shells white. I would take photos of them instead and later a secret cheer of joy would rise in my chest as I dumped the container back into the river I had collected my samples from.

For now, I remained hunched over a bucket. I took another careful spoonful and poured it into the pretty dish, raising my magnifying glass once more. Each specimen would be dropped into isopropyl and carefully marked as a dot on my tally sheet.

“Ah, there you are Jill.”

I looked behind me when the source of the footsteps spoke. It was Mason. He was holding a bottle of red wine. I raised a brow in surprise, “Mason? What are you doing here?”

It was his 20th anniversary with his wife. He had made arrangements. At least a month of planning on his part.

“She wants a divorce. I didn’t want a good Merlot to go to waste.”

This was a shock. I had been over for a barbecue at their house just last week. Everything seemed completely normal. He continued, “Apparently she’s been um... seeing one of the boys at the grocery store.”

I remained still, my shock only growing.

“I mean, I guess he is older than our own boys by a few years.”

“Mason,” I said, “The Loblaws?”

He twirled the wine bottle in his hand, not making eye contact. It looked like he had been crying. I sealed the bottle of isopropyl, “Help me carry this tub up to my car. I’m sure I have something resembling a glass in the back seat.”

He passed me the wine and picked up the tub. I carefully packed my things into my backpack before following him up the hill to the parking lot. I felt around the underside of my backseat and came up with a thermos cup that had gotten lost a few weeks ago. We sat on my tailgate as he poured some wine into my the cup. After a taste I nodded confirmation, “That is too good to waste on a cheating wife.”

Mason blanched, his eyes growing misty as he took a slug straight from the bottle. Needing to recover from my blunder I asked where he got it.

“Took a quiz on some website called Bright Cellars. They sent us a lovely selection. I’m going to keep the wine fridge.”

“You are going to keep the house after she moves out,” I insisted.

His teeth were stained purple, “You know... It doesn’t bother me that he’s half my age. What bothers me is that she lied. She kept this from me for a year. She just...”

The eye mist turned into heaving sobs. I put my arm around him, hoping to be a comfort. We had known each other since college, bonding over identifying leaves and benthic invertebrates. He was already married to his high school sweetheart then. Their kids were now old enough to both be in college.

“You know Mason, this is a terrible first date.”

His shuddering stopped suddenly, “What?”

I laughed. Soon he was laughing too. He wiped tears from his eyes, “Don’t you have a sexy grocery clerk to go home to?”

“Hey, she’s between jobs. Don’t put that pressure on her.” My girlfriend of three years had been thinking of switching careers for a while. She had decided to take up part-time work as a cashier, saying it would give her a fresh perspective. I imagined an unfaithful housewife flirting with her over plastic packs of strawberries and containers of hummus.

Mason took another slug of wine, “Let’s get this benthic survey done.”

“Sure, but don’t you dare murder my decapods.”

“I would never,” Mason mocked, finding a sturdy surface for the wine and setting up the microscope. I knew he would pull through. I didn’t think it was the wine talking either.

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Written by Kelsey Reich on April 19/2021 in Ontario, Canada.